Remembering Noble
{|style="width:100%; color:#FFF;" |valign="top" style="padding:5px;"| I. It wasn't an impending air raid, but it sure sounded like one. The girl moaned and rolled over in her bed, eyes fluttering open unwillingly. She tried to reach for her alarm clock, but got tangled in her sheets and, in the ensuing struggle to get free, fell out of bed, taking the covers with her. She landed in a heap on the floor and made an "oof" sound, then extricated herself awkwardly and staggered to her feet, finally able to turn the hated device off. It was 6:00 in the morning, still dark outside. The chilly morning air bit at the girl's bare toes, and she picked up her covers and crawled back into bed, muttering under her breath. She burrowed down into the pile of bedclothes and shut her eyes, eager to drift back into blissful dreams... Then a dash of ice-cold water hit her across the face and she screamed, bolting upright in a panic, only to hear male laughter erupt a few feet away. "Kristof!" the girl shouted, wiping her face, then cringing as the light came on and temporarily blinded her. "You... you... you seggfej! I'm gonna kill you!" The tall, lanky young man with black hair straggling almost to his shoulders just smirked. "Jò reggelt kìvànok." He folded his arms and chuckled. "See, this is what big brothers are for. Getting their lazy little sisters out of bed." "M'not little." The girl blinked, rubbed her eyes, and pushed a lock of brown hair out of her face. "It's Saturday. Saturday. No school. So leave me alone." "You've got the memory of a goldfish, you know that? Yes, it's Saturday, but we've got plans. Don't you remember? Mum wants us to go to some memorial thing this morning." "Nnnnngh" was the girl's only response. "Quit being such a lump." Kristof leaned over and mussed her hair, and got slapped on the arm for his efforts. "There'll be refreshments afterward, so lunch is covered. Now hurry and get cleaned up. Breakfast is on the way." "Tell Mum I'm sick. That I've got a migraine or something. I don't want to go anywhere today." "Rebeka." There was a touch of brotherly authority in Kristof's tone, and he sighed. "Just come on, okay? You can sleep in til noon tomorrow." "Fine." The word came out as more of a grunt than a statement, and Kristof backed out of the room, hands raised in a gesture of surrender. He shut the door behind him and Rebeka promptly flopped back onto her bed, exhaling gustily. She closed her eyes and made a face, resenting the fact that she had to leave the warmth and comfort of her bed. She sat up, let her toes touch the hardwood floor, and gave a little hiss. It was cold. Ten minutes later, she was dressed in an off-white woolen shirt, a dark blue knitted vest, some black pants, and lace-up boots that went up to her knees. She ran a plastic brush through her shoulder-length straight hair and tilted her head to one side as she looked in the mirror, studying her reflection. She had a pointed chin and pale skin and gray eyes set in a face that was more childish than she liked. Her nose was straight and her mouth was small, and privately she thought she resembled a mouse, what with her prominent ears and all. She went to the dining room, where she pulled up a chair to the table and slumped, bleary eyed and only half awake. Kristof was already there, and he was sipping at a glass of hot milk with a contented expression. They were four years apart, and while she attended high school, he was doing odd jobs around town in lieu of the fact that an offworld university was still reviewing his transcript. His brown eyes met hers and he smirked, the same insolent look as earlier. "You look like you just got back from a date with a Brute," he snarked, and Rebeka wadded up a napkin and threw it at him. He dodged it and snorted. "Kristof, be nice to your sister. Rebeka, stop being cranky," their mother admonished, bringing a pan full of sizzling bacon from the stove. She shoved half of it onto Kristof's plate and split the rest between herself and Rebeka. Rebeka rolled her eyes. That was their anya for you; always trying to keep the peace, even when it was perfectly evident that Kristof was being an arse. "So... we're going to that thing today," Rebeka mused, poking unenthusiastically at her bacon. "What's the point, anyway? I mean, it's not like we haven't gone to fifty million other memorials in our lives. Every time a plant blooms, everyone has to freak out or something." Reza Juhàsz sighed and shook her head, exasperated with her daughter's complaints. "For the hundredth time this week, yes. I know you don't want to go, but please... it means a lot to our family. Your grandmother was here when the Covenant came her back in '52. Her father died during the invasion. Her health prevents her from going to these things, so it's up to us." "Can't she just watch it on the news?" Rebeka groused. "It is being broadcast, you know." "Watch your mouth, young lady," Reza reprimanded, a bit of anger in her voice. "The fact is, you are going, no matter how much you protest. You need to appreciate what we have now, in light of the fact that this planet was virtually destroyed fifty years ago." Rebeka stared down at her plate, her cheeks coloring a bit in a mixture of embarrassment and annoyance. She picked up a slab of bacon and shoved it into her mouth, crunching it into little pieces, wishing she could just go back to bed. She finished her breakfast in silence, then took her dirty dishes to the sink and went back to her room to finish getting ready. Half an hour later she was sitting on the roof, legs dangling nearly fifteen feet off the ground. Getting up was easy; all she had to do was shimmy up a tree and drop down onto the flat surface. Now she sat watching as the sun grew brighter and brighter, rising above the horizon, bathing the landscape in pale light. Birds sang and quarreled in the treetops, and a few half-wild Moa ran skittishly through the front yard, leaving tracks in the soft dirt. "Yo, sis." She turned to see her older brother drop down from the very branch she'd come from, clad in jeans and a T-shirt advertising an old flip band, Face of Hades. His hair was uncombed as usual and he gave her a lopsided, friendly smile. "Feel any better now that you're awake?" "Nope," Rebeka replied, leaning back and resting on her elbows. "I just feel... drained. Like I go to school every day and go through the motions, waste my energy on stuff that doesn't even matter. I'm smarter than everyone else in my class, and nothing challenges me anymore. It's all just... stupid." She sat back up and clasped her hands, kicking her legs. "I guess I was really looking forward to resting today, that's all. And really: this is 2602, people. Why are we still holding memorial services every other weekend?" "This one's supposed to be special, though. Not like the rest. You remember the big dedication ceremony back in '97? The one about the Spartan-IIs?" "How could I forget? I was there," Rebeka sighed. "It was long and boring and we ate sandwiches afterward that gave me diarrhea." "You really don't put that much value on this stuff, do you?" Kristof wondered, giving her a sideways look. "I do! I do... I'm just, oh, I dunno. I'm pissed off." Rebeka crossed her arms. "So, back to what you were saying... about today." "Oh, yeah. Well, apparently there were other Spartans that fought on Reach, that nobody's known about for a long time. Some kind of hush-hush top-secret thing got put in place, but it got overturned a few years back, and now the UNSC wants to honor those Spartans with a big ol' memorial. It's supposed to be one-of-a-kind." "Sounds nice." Rebeka managed lamely. "Hey, I know what would cheer you up. Instead of riding with Mum, we could, say, head out that way on our 'Hog with Tycho and his friends--" "No, no, no, no." Rebeka held up a finger. "We are not going anywhere with Tycho or any of his friends on anything resembling a 'Hog. Remember what happened last time?" "I try not to, actually," Kristof muttered. "Look, it wasn't my fault, Ren was the one putting his hands over my eyes..." "And you were the one driving with no hands on the wheel," Rebeka finished curtly. "I should know. I was the one screaming bloody murder the whole time. Which is why I'm going on my 'Hog by myself." "It was fun, though," Kristof said slyly, grinning. He sat down beside her and elbowed her playfully. "Maybe the memorial won't be so bad, eh? I mean, we've had all this Remember Reach stuff drilled into our heads since we could walk, but maybe we should at least try to understand why it's so important to people, y'know?" "I guess," Rebeka grumbled. "I dunno. It's just one big fat inconvenience today, that's all." Fifteen minutes later they were getting ready to leave. Rebeka snagged her safety helmet and tucked it under one arm as she made a beeline for the door, pocketing the keys to her civilian Warthog. Before she could exit the house, her mother caught her by the arm and pushed a small camcorder into her free hand. "Your grandmother asked if we could record the proceedings for her to keep as a souvenir. I'm giving you that responsibility." "Why? Wouldn't you rather do it?" Rebeka asked, frowning. "I'd rather you do it, dear. It'll mean something if you're the one to give it to her. She feels as if we forget about her a lot... this could be a present of sorts from you." "Whatever," Rebeka sighed, bounding out of the house. She went straight to the garage and mounted her Warthog, a sleek and fairly small specimen specifically tailored for off-road use. It was a dark gray color with red detail on the front that faded to white and gold flames as it trailed toward the doors. The engine purred and growled as she started it up, a primal sound that made her itch for speed. She slipped on her safety helmet, a dull gray thing that she privately despised, and watched as her mother and Kristof got into the family truck and drove away. Then she revved up the engine and shot out of the yard, speeding across the road and into an open field. The one thing Rebeka liked about going off-road was the lack of speed limits. Her 'Hog tore up the grass as it ate up the miles, jostling and pitching on the uneven ground. It was lonely on the open plain, but comforting as well. The ground was marred by large patches of glassy earth, where good soil and vegetation had yet to take root, and the towering mountains off in the distance were broken by large gaps and unusual cracks. Reach was almost fully healed... almost. "We are connected, we'll never be alone. We walk together, forever down that road..." The speakers inside her helmet blared into her ears, pumping sound from the tiny music chit that resided in a slot on the back. The raw beat of the flip music only added to the excitement of driving at nearly eighty miles an hour. Suddenly the Warthog jolted and jerked wildly, then righted itself. Rebeka clung as the vehicle spun and screeched to a stop, then spat a Hungarian curse and dismounted, worried that maybe one of the tires had taken damage. She inspected all four wheels and, finding no problems, moved to get back on and keep going. But the glint of sunlight on metal gleamed in the corner of her eye, and she turned to see something asymmetrical poking up out of the packed dirt. She considered ignoring it and continuing on her way, but her curiosity got the better of her; she wanted to know what she had just run over. So she jogged over to the strange object, squatted down, and took off her helmet to get a better look. It looked like some kind of helmet, so she hooked her fingers around an edge and yanked hard, and it took several attempts for her to get it out of the ground. A cloud of dust rose and chunks of hard, blackened earth fell out. She shook it, getting rid of the last few clods, and held it at arm's length, studying the faded visor. It could have been any color, but now it was a discolored gray, cracked and chipped. The helmet wasn't rusty, but blackened and scorched instead, with a thin coating of dirt from being buried. "What are you?" she murmured, running her fingers along the lines in the metal. Regardless of where it came from or who it belonged to, it might fetch a nice price on GalacTrade, or maybe she could hock it off to a museum. She turned and was shocked to see more metallic-looking pieces about twenty feet away, sticking up out of the ground. Her curiosity roared for more, and she hurried over to get a quick look. She set the battered old helmet down and got on her knees to examine this latest find. She reached out, got a grip on the largest piece, pulled, and it came up out of the dirt... and shards of broken, charred bone fell out, bits of rib and spine. Rebeka screamed and jumped back, alarmed, then mentally berated herself for being so silly. A dead body couldn't hurt anyone. However, she now had no interest in whatever else was there; she wasn't about to steal armor off a corpse. Something that wasn't bone lay with the skeletal fragments, though. Rebeka gulped and picked it up, surprised when it turned out to be a metal chain with two small, thin tags attached. They were bent and charred, and she couldn't quite make out the little letters stamped on the surface. Rebeka thought about putting them back, but her inner pack rat won out and she hung them around her neck. There was another set of tags, but they were inside the armor, and she wasn't going to reach in and get them. Rebeka took the dilapidated helmet back to her 'Hog and set it in the passenger's seat, and was about to put her own helmet back on when a sudden, childish urge overcame her, and instead she put on the broken helmet just to see how it felt. The inside smelled burnt and the ruined HUD gave the outside world a gloomy, ominous look. It didn't work, of course, having lost power decades ago, but it was still an eerie sensation. Suddenly she felt sheepish and pulled the helmet off, setting it back down on the passenger's seat. She checked her watch, blanched as she realized she had just wasted precious time, and gunned the engine, not wanting to arrive at the ceremony late. II. She got to the ceremony half an hour late, having taken a wrong turn along the way. Since the memorial was at a military complex, she had to go through security, which took nearly ten minutes. There was a huge crowd present, which meant that she couldn't get close enough to see what was going on, and she was too far away to record anything. So she tucked the camcorder into her pocket, leaned against the wall, and idly wiped off the dog tags with a cloth that she normally used to clean her dashboard. There was so much grit and ash stuck on the tags, it was nearly a lost cause. But the repetitive motions kept her mind off how disappointed her mother would be in her tardiness and her failure to get anything for her grandmother. Now and then she would hear snatches of the speech, when the noise from the crowd got low; she heard things like "ultimate sacrifice," "died with honor," "never surrendered," and every other cliché statement she'd heard at any memorial she'd ever attended. The crowd would get loud after that, cheering and hollering and clapping and screaming. Some people even cried. Rebeka finally made some headway after an hour. She had discovered what looked to be a J or a T; she couldn't tell which because there was still some grime stuck along the bottom half of the letter. She looked up to see the crowd dispersing. It seemed like the speeches were over and done with, and now everyone was going to either talk with the speakers or eat refreshments inside the complex. Her eyes widened as she caught a glimpse of a huge stone monument that sat to the immediate right of the platform. She thought she saw Kristof nearby, but the monument held her full interest. She had never seen anything like it. It was a massive thing made of many statues. Around the base were carved likenesses of Covenant aliens, wielding needlers and plasma guns and the like, as if they were trying to climb up a mountain. Higher up were humans-- Army troopers, Marines and ODSTs. But higher still, on top of the "mountain," were the carefully-chiseled images of six prominent beings, the sight of which almost made Rebeka's hair stand on end. They were, undeniably, Spartans, and life-sized at that. She inched closer to the monument, as if she were afraid of treading on hallowed ground. She gazed up at the stone visages of the Spartans, wondering what the faces behind the helmets had looked like. Perhaps the world would never know. She studied each one, noting how each was somewhat different from the other, unique and yet the same. Spartans all. She finally came to the last one and craned her neck, somewhat shocked. Here was a surprise! The stone helmet she was looking at was a perfect, albeit much more intact-looking, facsimile of the old helmet she had found. Her eyes drifted downward to the plaque tacked onto the front of the monument, between an ODST and a ravenous-looking Jackal. "When all hope on Planet Reach seemed lost, ''Noble Team stood united in defense of humankind. ''In honor of their heroism we come together. ''Remember Noble. Remember Reach. ''The monument to Noble Team burns brighter ''with each who remembers their courage." She looked around and saw that at the feet of each Spartan was a similar plaque. So she began to read them. ''"Chief Warrant Officer Jorge S052 ''Adorned with battle scars of wars past, ''His armor told the story of a true Spartan. ''A testament to the conflicts waged over decades, ''He inspired Noble in their darkest hour. ''And with his hardened voice ringing louder ''With each Covenant salvo on his homeworld of Reach, ''The destiny of Noble Team was realized ''And the survival of humanity secured. ''In recognition of this, his endless courage, ''We honor him as the fighting spirit of Noble." Rebeka looked up at the Spartan, who was considerably taller than his fellows, an armored warrior wielding a wicked machine gun turret. "Fighting spirit" was an apt term indeed. ''"Lieutenant Commander Catherine 'Kat' S320 ''Strong both in mind and spirit, ''Key to the success on Reach. ''Her cryptanalytic genius ''Cleared Noble's path. ''A true Spartan, armed with an intellect ''More dangerous than any weapon. ''She deciphered the unknown ''To change the course of an entire war. ''In recognition of this, her unparalleled brilliance. ''We honor her as the true genius of Noble". This Spartan was not as heavily armored as the first, but appeared just as lethal, holding a pistol in firing position with a prosthetic right arm. Rebeka grinned despite herself. The lady kicked butt, she thought approvingly. ''"Commander Carter S259 ''If not for his leadership on Reach, ''All would have been lost. ''An everlasting testament to fortitude, ''Defiant in the face of adversity. ''Born of unbreakable will, ''It was he who led Noble in its finest hour. ''Courageously guiding them to victory, ''No matter how high the cost. ''In recognition of this, his steadfast resolution, ''We honor him as commander of Noble." This Spartan just looked the part of a leader, even as a statue. "Warrant Officer Emile S239 ''Striking fear into all he encountered ''While wielding the wrath of a crumbling planet. ''Equally vicious and strong, ''His blade sharpened by battle. ''He fearlessly cut through enemy forces, ''Instilling hope in an entire race. ''Marked by the skull scratched into his helmet, ''He was the last his enemies ever saw of this world. ''In recognition of this, his warrior's spirit, ''We honor him as the merciless wrath of Noble." This Spartan appeared particularly fearsome. The death's head was very evident on the visor of his helmet, and his bent knife looked ready to tear something to bits. ''"Warrant Officer Jun S266 ''Blessed with the talent of a steady hand, ''He stood guard over the path ahead. ''Patiently combing the surface of Reach, ''Marking the location of each target. ''Holding his breath before taking that of his enemies, ''His rifle echoed with the loud crack of defiance. ''Hidden in the shadows, ''His was the first shot in our fight for survival. ''In recognition of this, his tireless diligence, ''We honor him as the vigilant eye of Noble." Rebeka muttered an oath and pulled out the camcorder, taking detailed pictures of each statue and the corresponding plaques. She arrived at the last one, the one belonging to the Spartan whose helmet so resembled the one she had salvaged. ''"Lieutenant XXX S312 ''A grim reaper, a hyper-lethal vector; ''A lone wolf who never surrendered. ''The Spartan, 'Noble Six,' was a replacement, ''Sent to fill a role left by a fallen hero. ''Never hesitant, always ready for a fight, ''This Spartan followed orders, ''And saw the mission through till the end. ''Trading personal preservation for our kind's salvation. ''Though the name has been lost to time, ''We honor this Spartan as the final sacrifice of Noble." "You... you don't even have a name," Rebeka murmured, puzzled. What had happened? Had ONI simply erased its records, lost some files during the war? Was there some kind of cover-up going on? Or was the Spartan simply a mystery, meant to remain anonymous despite his or her achievements? She had a sudden urge to run back to her 'Hog and retrieve the helmet so she could see if it really was exactly like the one belonging to Noble Six. She turned, only to run into a spectator who had been standing silently behind her. "Ack, ''sajnàlom!" Rebeka sputtered, backing away. "That, um, didn't hurt, did it?" Her victim, a man who appeared to be in his seventies, gave a thin smile and shook his head, dusting off the front of his black dress uniform. His head was shaved, and he wore so many campaign medals that Rebeka could only stare for a few seconds. She looked back up at his face and saw that the left side was covered in plasma burn scarring. It looked like he had a tattoo there, though. He stood taller and straighter than any old person she'd ever seen, and when he moved, it wasn't slowly or shakily. "No, no. You're fine. Accidents happen," he said, in an accent that was almost like her own, but Asian rather than Eastern European. "I was distracted, for one thing. Something like this..." He stared at the monument, dark eyes narrowed. "It commands one's attention." "Uh... great! I mean, it won't happen again," Rebeka said, shifting her weight uneasily. She realized she had just gotten the entire incident on tape and hastily pushed the button to stop recording. "I'm, er, here to get pictures and video for my grandmum. She couldn't make it." "Shame," the old man remarked. He was focused on the monument, perhaps lost in thought. "I wouldn't miss this for the world. Brings back a lot of... difficult... memories, but I owe it to them to be here." Rebeka cocked an eyebrow. "Owe it to them? You knew them?" "Unfortunately, I can't talk about that." The man sighed, smiling ruefully. "But I will tell you this. They were the best team anyone could ask for, Spartan or not. I wish they could have lived to see all this... Reach rebuilt, people happy again." An odd feeling had settled into Rebeka's stomach at this point. "Yeah," she said softly, looking up at the silent stone figures. "That would've been nice." "You have family in the service?" the man asked, seeing the dog tags. "Uh, no. My dad was a contractor. Died in a Jackal raid when I was five." Talking about it put an unpleasant taste in her mouth. "Mum works full-time as a secretary in the big city. I haven't got any aunts or uncles or... anything. Just my grandmum. And she lives in a nursing home. I found these..." She lifted the tags in her palm, studying them. "In a field on my way here." She didn't go into how she'd filched them off a suit of armor with charred bones inside. "Thought I'd hang onto them, y'know, for safekeeping." "Hmm." The man tilted his head slightly. "Take care of them. You never know who they might have belonged to." "...Yeah," Rebeka said hollowly, stealing a glance at the stone Spartans. "Uh... sorry I got to blabbing. I know you're paying your respects, so I'll just... uh..." "No, don't apologize. Nothing to be sorry about." The man extended his hand. "I can't tell you my name, but I can say it was a pleasure meeting you." "I'm Rebeka Juhàsz," she replied, shaking his hand. His grip was firm and strong and even scared her a little. "My mum's around here somewhere, and my brother Kristof--" Suddenly a scream pierced through the hum of chatter, and there was a chorus of angry cries from the far side of the courtyard. Several guards snapped to action, drawing their weapons and yelling for the civilians to get down. A man came running across the open space, yelling in Hungarian, and Rebeka caught the words freedom and fascists before she noticed that he had on some kind of funny belt, and she had the urge to run away but couldn't move fast enough. Then the old man grabbed her by the arm, yelled "GET DOWN" in her ear, then seemed to realize something and tackled her, covering her body with his own. A split second later, there was a loud sound, like a thunderclap, and before they could hit the ground, a wave of heat and searing pain blew them back, and Rebeka heard herself screaming as she hit the ground, rolled, and immediately drifted into nothingness. III. An acrid smell assaulted her nostrils as she came back to consciousness. She tried to open both eyes, but the attempt made a horrible, awful pain pulse through the right side of her face, and she clapped one hand over her right eye. Wet, sticky blood ran through her fingers. She was dimly aware that she had a deep cut there and that something was wrong with her eye. Her whole body was one collective ache, and her left shoulder felt out of joint. Her functional eye blinked rapidly, leaking tears, and she coughed violently as she attempted to sit up. Smoke hung in the air, a nasty haze, and there were crumpled bodies everywhere. A few of them were stirring, still alive like she was, but most were still and bloody. Some were even on fire. Rebeka shrieked as she realized that tiny shards of metal were embedded in her legs, and she choked as her raw throat refused to sustain the scream any longer. She looked around, panicking, and saw a familiar figure lying face-down nearby. It was the old man... the hero who'd practically saved her life. He was unmoving and a pool of blood had formed around his midsection. This is a bad dream. A nightmare. I'm going to wake up, and it'll be time to get up and go to the memorial, Rebeka thought, gritting her teeth and moaning as pain threatened to overwhelm her. Then a shadow filled her field of vision and she realized that it was a paramedic, and in her distressed state she tried to roll over and crawl toward the old man, thinking maybe she could wake him up, keep him alive. The sudden movement was too much, though, and she passed out again, and the last thing she saw was the stone monument, now pitted with scars and covered in charred streaks. No Spartans to help us... to save us now... it hurts ... am I dying...? When she came to again, she was lying on a gurney, and the right side of her face had been numbed and bandaged. She tried to raise her head, only to be gently pushed down by a medic. What happened, she tried to say, but it came out as "Wa-apna?" "Don't talk. Just relax. You're not out of the woods yet, but your chances are good. Just don't try anything stupid," the medic said, sweat beads on his dark skin. Rebeka raised her arm, saw the IV and osmotic patches there, and groaned. She couldn't think straight, but she knew something awful had happened. She had hazy memories of broken bodies and blood and flames. The drugs in her system made her float in and out of consciousness for a long time. Whenever she awoke, there were always doctors and nurses and the smell of antiseptic. She would ask about her mother and Kristof, and they just told her to be quiet, not to strain herself. In between waking moments, she had dreams about explosions and skeletons wearing armor rising up out of the ground, accusing her of theft. One day she woke up and her mind was clearer than other times. She blinked and moved her head, feeling a soft pillow underneath. She was in a hospital room, and there was peaceful sunlight streaming in through the window blinds. Monitors blinked beside her bed, displaying her vital stats. There was only one IV in her arm now, and when she studied the little bag, it was an antibiotic, not a sedative. She reached up with her good arm, the right one, and gingerly felt the right side of her face. Sure enough, there was a nasty vertical cut that extended from her mouth to her scalp, and it went over her eye. My eye... Something that was not an eyeball now filled her right eye socket, covered by a healing patch. Her head had been shaved to allow the cut to heal, and short fuzz had grown back since then. "You're awake." Rebeka turned slowly to see Kristof sitting in a chair, dark circles under his eyes. He looked gaunt and... older. A recently-healed cut adorned his cheek. He mustered a smile, but it was shaky, and it bothered her. She looked around but didn't see their mother. "Where's Mum?" she asked, her voice scratchy and hoarse. "You've been in and out for about three weeks," Kristof said, as if he hadn't heard her question. "The docs knew you'd make it, but there were a few hitches. Nothing your stubborn immune system couldn't handle, of course." "Kristof, where's Mum?" Rebeka insisted, a tinge of fear in her voice. "Is she hurt too?" "She..." Kristof's face contorted and he cursed. "They told me not to say anything, but... she died, Rebeka. Of an embolism. A few nights after the bombing. She got hurt, and they thought she'd make it, but..." His eyes reddened and leaked tears. "She didn't." Rebeka was stunned by this. She blinked, trying to process the news, and her lip quivered. Her good eye stung with tears, and she curled both hands into fists, wadding up the covers of her hospital bed. One of the monitors bleeped a warning, and a few seconds later, a nurse burst into the room. While the nurse administered drugs to Rebeka and chewed out Kristof for spilling the beans, Rebeka remained silent, staring at the sunlight that came through the slats. Mostly she felt guilty for the attitude she'd taken that morning, the way she'd acted. If she had known it would be the last time... To keep her stable, the doctors gave her morphine. That night she cried into her pillow, unable to keep the grief at bay. She felt so alone in the sterile room, so fragile and so stupid. It should have been me, not Mum. It should have been me... Those thoughts stole their way into her mind and ate at her, like parasitic bugs. Kristof came by the next day and brought her the dog tags. "The docs gave 'em to me after they peeled off all your clothes. Thought you'd want them back," he said, again trying to smirk but failing. He didn't stay long after that; he said he had a new job and had to get back to it. Rebeka could tell he was being eaten by grief, but he was determined not to acknowledge it. She asked for a cloth and used it to continue cleaning off the tags. It gave her some purpose in the middle of all this insanity. She was able to polish most of the flat surface, but the individual letters and numbers were still obscured by built-up grime and ash. For three days she worked at it obsessively, until her fingers began to ache and she had to stop. She hung the tags around her neck and took long naps, waking up to eat and go to the bathroom. There was nothing better to do. Some doctors came and asked her questions about how she felt, how she was dealing with her mother's death. She hated them; they looked at her like she was an interesting microbe or something. Sometimes she would wake in the night and lay there for hours, unable to sleep, brooding on what had happened. The memory of the man in the bomb-belt haunted her, and she wondered how on earth he had gotten past security. She wondered whether he was an Insurrectionist or if he was just some crazy person. If there's even a distinction between the two. She wondered who her savior really was, who he had been, what secrets he had been unable to divulge. He was a hero, whoever he was, Rebeka thought, and a tight feeling seized her throat as she recalled the way he shielded her with his own body. I'll never forget what he did. Never. Now I have two regrets. I didn't apologize to Mum, and I wasn't able to thank that old guy. IV. The smell of burning flesh and explosives residue. The cries of the wounded, the sharp pain of shrapnel and bits of human bone embedded in soft skin. The sight of bodies strewn about like so many broken dolls, lifeless. Rebeka opened her eyes. The world seemed strangely more detailed now, more visceral. The doctors had assured her that a bionic eye would be just as good, if not even better than, the original. Ocular nerve implants and therapy sessions had attuned her nervous system to the new orb, and now both machine and flesh moved as one when she glanced from left to right. She had on a woolen cap to protect her shorn head from the cold wind, and walked with a slight limp as she trekked along the side of the road. The doctors had suggested plastic surgery to correct the inevitable deep scar that would mark the right side of her face, but she declined. Her hospital bill was huge enough already, and deep down, she felt that she deserved the mark. It would serve as a permanent reminder of what she had lost… what had been sacrificed that day. Rebeka grunted as she shifted her backpack, pausing for a moment to adjust it. The nursing home was only a couple blocks away. Kristof had offered to drive her, but she needed to go on foot. To exercise her legs, and to have some time to think. He's all I have left, really, she mused, as one of her boots made a splash in a nearby puddle. Him and grandmum… The first thing she had done after getting discharged was visit her mother's grave. It was situated in a nice, quiet little cemetery, far from the hubbub of the city or suburbs. A lot of people had attended the funeral; there were long-lasting artificial flower arrangements all over the place. Now she was determined to go see her grandmother. It had rained badly the day before, when she'd originally planned to travel, and today the weather was gray and soggy. There was a nasty chill in the wind, and everything looked dull and depressing. The suburbs of New Aszod were a far cry from the rural area where Rebeka had grown up. It was only a forty-minute journey on foot, but it was like stepping into another world. The buildings were tall and made of glass and metal, not at all homey-looking. If anything, they were intimidating. She hurried to get out of their shadows, stomping through more sidewalk puddles. The door swished open effortlessly, and Rebeka tentatively stepped into the darkened room, which smelled of disinfectants and old flowers. An old romance vid was playing and she could hear the hiss of oxygen over the words and music. The nurse who had shown her in pressed a button on the wall, making the light brighter, and mustered a cheery smile. "Someone here to see you, Mrs. Juhàsz," she said, indicating Rebeka. The occupant of the bed sat up a little and squinted. Rebeka wondered if she would even recognize her own granddaughter. But then a smile spread across the woman's pale, lined face and she held out a hand. "Rebeka," she said softly, in an accent identical to the younger Juhàsz's. Rebeka approached the bed and shrugged the backpack off, setting it on a chair. She took her grandmother's hand and smiled awkwardly. It was hard to smile all the way because of the deep scar. "Nagyimami," she murmured, then felt a chill as her grandmother frowned and studied her face. "What… what is… oh, your poor face…" The old woman's brow furrowed and she reached up to gently touch the ragged scar. "I heard about your mother from Kristof. He called… said you were unconscious. I'm glad you pulled through. I'm so sorry…" "Thanks," Rebeka said, her throat tightening. She swallowed hard and removed her woolen cap because it was starting to itch, then scratched at her short hair. "A lot has happened, that's for sure. I'm supposed to go back to school in a couple weeks." She looked around the forlorn, lifeless room. "It'll be Christmas soon…" Her grandmother gazed at her with keen gray eyes, eyes that matched her own (the natural, anyway) in color and shape. "Come now, sit. Pull up a chair. You must be tired out from all the doctor visits you've been through." Rebeka pulled up a chair and eased herself into it. She leaned back and sighed. "I brought you something. I… was supposed to record the ceremony for you, but… it didn't, um, work out." "Of course it didn't," her grandmother said softly. "So. What gifts do you bring?" "Well, the ceremony was about a memorial to a Spartan group called 'Noble Team,'" Rebeka said, unzipping her backpack. She pulled the helmet out and set it on her lap. She had worked hard to clean it up as best she could. "I found this out in a field, half-buried in the dirt. It looks just like one of the Spartans' helmets, so I thought I'd give it to you. Y'know, as a souvenir. Or something." "You… found that?" the old woman gasped, her eyes widening. She reached out as if to touch it, then her hand shrank back and she gave a little shudder. "This… this should be given to a museum, or ONI, or…" "It's yours. It's all I have left of that day. Well, not quite. I also have these." Rebeka pulled the dog tags up out of her shirt and dangled them in midair. "Found them same place I found the helmet. Took weeks to get all the crud off, though." She took them off and placed them into her grandmother's small hand and let her study them. A sad, weary smile crossed the woman's aged face and her eyes suddenly seemed to be looking at something far away. She turned the tags over, then face up again, and shook her head. "A nevem Jorge," she muttered. "Huh?" Rebeka sat up a little straighter. "Oh… you would not believe how much of a coincidence this is," her grandmother said, laughing quietly. She brushed back a strand of silver hair and looked at Rebeka, her eyes excited. "Years and years ago… 2552, to be precise… I was here, on Reach, when the Covenant began to invade. I met Noble Team, face to face." Rebeka blinked, taken aback. "Wha…?" "That was why I wanted to attend the memorial, you see. I never got to thank them for saving my life." Her grandmother sighed and looked down, closing her fingers around the tags. "My father had just been killed, and I was out of sorts. I was quite ungrateful." "You mean you met the guy whose old tags I just happened to pick up," Rebeka said slowly, trying to wrap her mind around the concept. "Bloody hell… are you serious?" "Why would I not be? I may be old and in ill health, but I could never forget what happened that day." The gray eyes suddenly seemed less docile and more stubborn. "I was hiding, but the Spartans discovered me. I tried to tell them that Elites were still lying in wait, but the aliens attacked before they could do anything. Noble Team killed them… killed them all. Then they tried to get me to talk. I was angry, numb, trying to fight off being sad about my father. Then one took off his helmet, tried to be friendly, even told me his name. Jorge." Rebeka listened, spellbound. "I had never really seen Spartans before, but I didn't think they were human. That day, I learned otherwise." "That… is amazing," Rebeka breathed. "I was too ornery and too scared to admit it at the time, but looking back… yes, it was amazing," Sàra Juhàsz admitted. "Thanks to them, I was able to get help and deal with my grief. I met your grandfather and settled down on Earth… raised your poor father. Then I learned that Reach was being rebuilt. I begged until your grandfather moved us back here." Rebeka was silent, biting her lip as she mulled over something. "Nagyimami," she murmured, averting her eyes, "Why are there no more Spartans?" "What do you mean, dear?" "If… if people like Noble Team still existed, do you think there would still be bombings?" Sàra tilted her head sympathetically and placed an arm on Rebeka's. "There were Insurrectionists and terrorists even in those days," she said sadly. "Nearly all the Spartans died out during the war. A few returned from being lost in the far reaches of space, but… they would be older than me by now. I'm afraid the days of the Spartans have ended." Rebeka blinked. An old man, tall and clad in black, staring up at the stone images. Campaign medals all over his chest; scars on his face. "Maybe," she muttered, then took back the tags and hung them around her neck. "Or maybe not. There has to be somebody who can stop this. Stop any more bombs from going off…" "Perhaps you're right." Sàra smiled endearingly at her granddaughter. "You're just like your father. An idealist." Rebeka was about to reply, then she glanced at her watch and frowned. "Ach, szar. I've got a checkup in half an hour. It'll take me that long to walk there. I'm so sorry… I want to stay longer." "Go on. You need to make sure you're all better," Sàra insisted. "Come back soon, you hear?" "Definitely." Rebeka shouldered her backpack, leaving the helmet on the chair she'd been sitting in. Then she took off the dog tags and moved to hand them to Sàra. "Here… I think these are worth more to you than me." "No, no. Keep them." Sàra did not take them. "They came to you for a reason. I like to think there are ghosts on Reach, watching over us. Protectors, if you will." "Uh… all right. But really, if you want them—" "I told you, they're yours." Rebeka grinned, a lopsided grin since the right side of her face wouldn't cooperate. "See you later, Nagyimami," she said, then pulled on her cap and walked toward the door. "I promise I'll be back!" After the door closed, Sàra sighed shakily, then glanced at the old, battered helmet. She smiled. "What was it everyone used to say? Ah, yes… Spartans never die." She closed her eyes and chuckled. "Maybe that's true after all." V. The clinic was situated in country more familiar to Rebeka, located on the edge of suburbia. There were no towering steel buildings here, no forlorn skyscrapers, no crowded sidewalks. Around the clinic were several small businesses, along with a convenience store and an automobile repair shop. It looked more like a 20th-century small town than a 27th-century suburb. Her appointment was over with and she had nothing better to do than to stand and lean against the outside wall of the convenience store, watching as people and vehicles passed by. Here the weather had cleared up and the sun was just about to peek from behind gray clouds. The smell of wet earth filled Rebeka's nostrils, and she inhaled deeply as a fresh breeze blew her way. The bombing had done more than scar her face and take her eye; it had given her a new perspective on her home planet. How fragile everything really was, how it could be taken away so quickly. The laughing children and regal oaks and warm homes could so easily be reduced to ghosts and ashes and ruins... She pulled the tags out from under her jacket and studied them again, still incredulous over what her grandmother had told her. But there the letters and numbers were, plain as day: JORGE-052, in the blocky military stamp lettering that all dog tags had. The weeks she had spent during her recovery scraping all the grit off were now worth it. She wondered what name and number had adorned the other set of tags, the set she had been too spooked to gather. "I like to think there are ghosts on Reach, watching over us. Protectors..." She half-smiled as she recalled Sara's words. They wouldn't be ghosts, though. More like angels. Yeah. Guardian angels. An outburst of laughter caught her attention and she looked up to see a group of young teenagers spraying graffiti onto the side of an old storage shed. Rebeka sighed and crossed her arms, then something made her brow furrow and her mouth formed a thin, displeased line. They were painting slogans such as Down With the Fascists, UNSC Bastards Die, and Go To Hell, and There Are No Heroes, with some crude images thrown in. The word fascists got her blood up and she clenched a fist, remembering in perfect clarity how the suicide bomber had yelled the word before... Suddenly she was stalking toward them, heart beating fast, and she grabbed one by the arm, shoving him. "Get lost, you lowlifes," she said in a low voice, controlling the urge to start throwing punches. "Since when is our fun any of your business?" the leader, a curly-headed boy of about thirteen, sneered, in an obviously British accent. "Go back to your farm, hick." "You're vandalizing property. And you're pissing me off," Rebeka threatened. She cracked her knuckles. "It's not nice to piss off someone who got messed up by a bomb." She tilted her head, giving them all full view of her wounds. "Someone like that might just go crazy on you." "Pah. You're just a cheerleader for the UNSC. An ugly cheerleader at that," a girl snorted, and they all tittered. "Our parents are sick of government control, and we are too. Reach deserves independence after all it's been through!" "Reach deserves a break from your stupidity," Rebeka spat. "So stop already. The Insurrection is a lost cause, and all it's done so far is kill off a bunch of innocent people. Not much of a step toward independence, if you ask me." "Don't lecture us. You're obviously too idiotic to understand all the taxes and restrictions people are facing because of the tyrants that run things. So what if people get caught in the crossfire? I'd rather be dead than a UNSC pig..." "Give me a reason," Rebeka hissed, and she grabbed the ringleader by both lapels of his shirt collar and rammed him into the very artwork he'd created. He winced as his head impacted the metal surface, and struggled to get free. But Rebeka was older, bigger, and angrier to boot. "Hey, stop it! Hey! Break it up, or I'm callin' the cops!" A worker from the convenience had seen the scuffle and was yelling from the doorway, waving a chatter threateningly. Rebeka huffed, then released her would-be victim. The gang skulked away, casting loathing glances behind them as they went. Rebeka stamped her right foot and exhaled, then looked down and saw a spray can lying where it had been dropped. She picked it up, shook it, and sprayed a tiny puff of white paint into the air. It had a nasty smell. But she aimed it and sprayed until she had whited out one of the Innie slogans, then stepped back and coughed from the fumes. Her eye watered and she wasn't sure if it was from the fumes or if it was tears. "So... how was your day?" Rebeka looked up from her dinner—which consisted of a can of uncooked beans-- and shrugged. "Went and saw Grandmum. I gave her that helmet I found... she got all excited over it. It was nice to see her smile." Kristof sat down in a chair across from his younger sister and rubbed his eyes, yawning. "Work's as dull and repetitive as it ever was," he commented. "Since when was it anything but?" Rebeka said, raising an eyebrow. "Right." His smile was almost genuine, but it was too forced. Neither of them let their eyes wander to the empty chair at the end of the table. "I'm supposed to go back to court tomorrow. See what else I can do to get some benefits. I've got custody, but I'm not sure how the finances are being handled. You won't mind being here alone, will you?" "No," Rebeka replied, shaking her head. "Good. I didn't think you'd have a problem," Kristof mused. "You know, I actually met a Sangheili immigrant the other day. We talked about the weather, of all things." "I've always wanted to meet aliens. Learn about them," Rebeka sighed. Then she folded her arms on the table and rested her chin on them, scowling. "Kris... do you think I should apply for the Naval Academy?" "What, on Luna? The Navy?" Kristof sputtered. "Never thought you'd be interested in that sort of thing. Especially after... well, what of your health?" "We both know I'm the smartest kid in my class," Rebeka said. "And I don't want to go to college. At least, not like you do. I... I feel like I need to do something else." What Kristof couldn't see was that one of her hands was clutching the dog tags, and as she said this, her grip tightened considerably. "Well..." Kristof scratched his two-day stubble and exhaled. "I guess I'm in no position to tell you different, but... wow. I just never imagined you going military, that's all." "A lot has changed." Rebeka's eyes locked with his and she gave him a look. "If I'm going to move on, I can't just sit on my arse, now can I?" "I guess not," her brother replied, then reached out and playfully messed with her short hair. "It's just weird, imagining my baby sister in one of those starched uniforms. Not to pry, but... what put the idea in your head?" "It just... happened, I guess," Rebeka said quietly. "If it works out, go for it," Kristof suggested. He stood up and yawned. "I've given up going to that high-and-mighty school on Earth, but maybe you can make it to Luna." Rebeka was silent, deep in thought. Then she mustered a smile. "Yeah. Maybe." VI. /MESSAGE ENCRYPTED/ From: CodenameFRONTMAN To: CodenameMAESTRO Attachment: RJfile It's been another one of those weeks. Pickings are slim as usual, and the ones that are curious usually don't stick. I just don't know about the kids around here anymore-- they're all so distracted and, well, goofy. I'm so far below my quota, it's ridiculous. Even the new posters haven't drawn much interest. This office is small and constricting and smells like mold. You should send me an air freshener. I did have one interesting case drop by this week, though. Pretty young-- thought she was seventeen, but she's just tall. Poor kid had all her hair cut off and a bionic eye. Said she got banged up real bad in the bombing, the one that got all the press 'cause it was at the Noble memorial. Lost her mom, too. Sad. But she had questions, and I let her have all the info available. None of the sensitive stuff, of course. She kept asking about Spartans, and I had to tell her we don't "make" them anymore. She looked disappointed. Then we talked about Luna. Anyway, I looked up her records, and I think you'll want to have a look at this. It's not often we run across one that's genetically eligible, and if you'll pay attention to the academic records, there's a considerable IQ there. I know you're waiting to lift the curtain on this new project, but if it's gonna be soon, then I can honestly say I think I found a candidate to add to the list. If you give me the green light, I'll even pitch it to her. From the way she talked, I daresay she'll dive in. We've come a long way from kidnapping little kids and hiring angry orphans. We need volunteers, but they have to meet the quota. This is a one-in-a-thousand chance. Think it over, talk with the others, and let me know the verdict ASAP. One more thing. Can I have some more posters? I think if I stick them around the university district, they might bring in some customers. If I'm going to maintain this whole "recruiter" thing, I need recruits! /MESSAGE END/